


you know what they say about the way to a man's heart

by ignipes



Category: Bandom, Panic At The Disco
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-07-31
Updated: 2008-07-31
Packaged: 2017-11-04 09:26:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,877
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/392289
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ignipes/pseuds/ignipes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Brendon is sick and Jon is fussing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	you know what they say about the way to a man's heart

There's a tremendous crash from the direction of the kitchen, followed by a muffled string of curses.

"Motherfucking fucking fuck stupid fucking - fucking _celery_!"

Brendon frowns worriedly at the ceiling. He thinks about calling out to make sure everything is okay, but when he tries to speak it comes out sounding more like the croak of a dying frog than an actual word. So he gives up on that idea, pushes the covers down and sits up. After an entire day in bed he feels pretty gross, and he's pretty sure something actually crawled into his throat and died while he was sleeping. But there is nothing but an eerie silence from the kitchen now and he's concerned. Hungry, too, but mostly concerned.

He wraps the comforter around his shoulders and drags it with him as he stumbles out of the bedroom. The stereo in the living room is on low. It's oldies hour at one of the local stations; he recognizes the DJ's voice as the one who'd been drunk when he interviewed them, and they'd left the station convinced the man fully believed Ryan was a girl. Strangely enough, that DJ never tried to interview them again.

Brendon trips over the edge of his blanket, hitches it up again, and leans in the kitchen doorway. "What are you doing?" It almost sounds like real words too, or how real words would sound if he had just swallowed a mouthful of gravel.

Startled, Jon spins around. His hair is standing up on end and there's a mysterious orange stain on the front of his t-shirt. He's holding a huge knife - seriously, it's _huge_ , Brendon didn't even know he owned a knife that big - and he looks a little wild-eyed. "Oh, um. Sorry, did I wake you up? I dropped the, uh - drainy thing." He gestures at the colander on the counter.

Brendon looks around the kitchen and narrows his eyes. There is a skillet on the stove - smoking slightly - and a large pot beside it, a cutting board on the counter covered with demolished vegetable matter, and an entire army of little spice bottles lined up to the side.

"Jon," Brendon croaks. He and Jon both wince at how much his voice grates. "Are you cooking?"

Jon looks a little shifty. "Absolutely not," he says quickly. "I never cook."

"But you're in the kitchen. And there is... food." Brendon points without letting go of the blanket. "And stuff."

"Oh, is this the kitchen?" Jon looks around in amazement. "I thought this was the laundry room. I was just washing my new carrot socks."

Brendon tries not to smile. "You know what I told you about washing your carrot socks in my sink."

"I know," Jon sighs. "It won't happen again."

"Are you sure you're not cooking?"

"I haven't set anything important on fire yet," Jon says, as though it's the most obvious answer in the world. "So I can't be cooking."

Brendon nods. That's a good start, he thinks, no fires. "What are you not making?"

"I'm definitely not making chicken soup, and it's definitely not for the sick person living in this house."

Brendon blinks at him. "Why don't you just open a can?"

Jon looked offended. "Canned soup is for wimps. Trust me, it's totally better this way."

"You don't know how to make soup." Brendon's almost certain of this. Jon knows how to make sandwiches, and he usually remembers not to pour spoiled milk in his cereal, and he can boil spaghetti without forgetting that it's on the stove, and he has an uncanny ability to find the best and fastest take-out places in cities across the country. But homemade soup? Definitely not.

Jon smiles and points the huge knife at Brendon. "I am a man of many talents. You don't know what I can do."

Brendon has to smile back, but he must look a little wan because Jon puts the knife down and steps over to him. He puts his hands on Brendon's shoulders. "Go lie down," he says gently. "You sound like you're dying and you look even worse."

"Okay," Brendon says. It's funny how it doesn't sound like an insult coming from Jon. "Good idea." But it's easier to just close his eyes and keep leaning in the doorway. The kitchen actually smells pretty good, from what he can tell through his stuffed-up nose. There's a little bit of burnt something-or-other in the air, but mostly it smells warm and cozy and appetizing.

"Not right _here_ ," Jon says with a huff of laughter. "Maybe try the couch? I hear they can be pretty comfy."

"Okay," Brendon says again. He lets Jon turn him around and steer him toward the sofa, and he sits in the middle while Jon stacks up all the pillows on one end for him to lean against. He wants to make a joke about peeled grapes and palm leaves and cabana boys, but he's worried that his voice will give out before he gets to the punch line, so he just says, "I love it when you wait on me," and slumps over on the pile of pillows.

"Don't get used to it, princess," Jon says. "One day I'll catch the death plague and you'll have to pay me back."

He ruffles Brendon's hair before he goes back to the kitchen. Brendon makes a face - that's annoying when anybody else does it - but by the time he thinks of an appropriate response Jon is already gone.

His phone is next to the remote on the coffee table. He reaches for both of them at the same time, clicks the radio off and the TV on, and he scrolls through his messages. There's a text from Spencer that only says _ahahahahahahaahh_ , which doesn't make a whole lot of sense, and another one from Ryan that says _u kno what they say about teh way 2 a mans <3_, which -

Well. It kind of makes Spencer's message make a little bit more sense.

Brendon squints at his phone for a moment, and then he twists around to look at the doorway to the kitchen. He can hear Jon moving around, utensils clattering on pots and the sink running. Brendon hadn't really thought anything of it when Jon came over yesterday and proclaimed, "I'm here to make sure you don't drown in your own snot." Brendon had been feeling miserable and achy and, okay, drowning in his own snot, then Jon showed up and made him drink tea and entertained him with stupid cat stories until Brendon fell asleep. And it was pretty nice to have somebody here, he thought, that's all.

Brendon expected him to be gone by morning, but Jon is still here, and Brendon's not sure he wants to think anything of it now either.

He sets his phone down and starts clicking through channels until he finds a show about Egypt. He squirms so the blanket isn't wrapped around him anymore and tugs it up to his chin. The narrator on the show is soothing and quiet, and he drifts somewhere between asleep and awake, thinking about how sad it would be if the pharaohs really did wake up in their tombs after they died, and they found all their fancy gold and jewels and weapons and clothes, but it was dark and lonely and they were locked in with nobody but a mummified cat for company.

"Hey."

Brendon's eyes snap open. There's a show about haunted houses on the TV now, and Jon is standing over him.

"Hungry?" he asks. He's holding a steaming bowl of soup and looks a apologetic for waking Brendon up.

Brendon sits up and inhales deeply, and he starts to answer, " _Starving_ ," but it turns into a painful coughing fit instead.

"Hey, hey, you all right?" Jon puts the soup down and sits beside him. He rubs his hand up and down Brendon's back. "It sounds like you're trying to hack up a lung."

When Brendon can talk again without coughing, he says, "It's okay. I've got a spare."

"A spare lung?"

"In a jar in my closet."

"Next to the brains and kidneys?"

Brendon nods. "You can never have too many spare body parts." He reaches for the soup. The bowl is hot so he balances it on his knees, and he can still feel the warmth through the blanket. "This smells good."

Jon looks skeptical. "How can you smell anything right now?"

"Well, it _looks_ like it smells good," Brendon amends. "Since when do you know how to make soup anyway?"

"I kind of cheated." Jon grins sheepishly. His hand is still on Brendon's back, moving in slow, comforting circles. "I had to ask for help. But my mom only laughed at me a little bit, unlike some other people I won't mention."

Brendon suspects that some other people are responsible for the text messages on his phone, and Jon's probably been teased enough for one day. He lifts the spoon, blows on the soup to cool it, and slurps it into his mouth. The broth is a little watery and it could use more salt, and it's not the best soup Brendon's ever tasted. But it's hot and it tastes like real chicken and real vegetables and it's never seen the inside of a can, and he can't think of anything he'd rather be eating.

"Right now," Brendon says between bites, "you are the most wonderful person in the entire world."

Jon laughs and leans back into the sofa cushions. "Man, if I'd've known that's all it takes, I would have started making soup years ago. I could have taken over the world by now."

"A soup revolution," Brendon agrees with a nod. He leans back too and tries not to be too obvious about wriggling back until Jon's arm is over his shoulders. He's probably going to end up spilling on himself, but he doesn't really care.

"A coup of soup."

"A soup-ocalypse."

"Nah," Jon says after a moment. "Then I'd have to make soup for everyone, instead of just the people I like."

Brendon hesitates with the spoon halfway to his mouth. He glances at Jon, and Jon is looking right back at him, a tiny smile playing on his lips, something like laughter in his eyes. There are questions on the tip of Brendon's tongue - _why did you come over, why are you still here, why are you taking care of me, did you really learn how to make soup just for me?_ \- but he knows if he asks them Jon will only laugh awkwardly and pull away, make some excuse to go clean up the kitchen or even leave, and that's the exact opposite of what Brendon wants.

So he looks away and says, "It's better this way." The soup doesn't really need blowing on anymore to cool it, but he does it anyway. "I'd much rather keep your mad soup skills all for myself."

"Good," Jon says. "That works out best for the both of us."

Jon squeezes Brendon's shoulders, a gesture Brendon recognizes as Jon's way of saying _hey, you_ and _I'm not going anywhere_ and _just relax_. He settles into it, humming happily as he takes another bite.


End file.
